


Knotty Professor

by CharWright5



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (it's me. c'mon now), Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, College Student Stiles, Derek Hale Has a Big Dick, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous references to porn, Knotting, M/M, Manhandling, Overstimulation, Professor Derek Hale, References to alive Hale family, Rimming, Rough Sex, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, Teacher-Student Relationship, True Mates, minor references to Christmas, very minor underage drinking (by US law)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 02:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16254791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharWright5/pseuds/CharWright5
Summary: It wasn't the first time Stiles had totally lost focus while working on an essay, writing a topic that most definitely wasn't the assigned one. It was, however, the first time a teacher—or professor, in this case—decided that his paper was so inaccurate he would have to give the student a first hand lesson in order to right his wrongs. Which, this time, meant teaching Stiles exactly what it was like to be knotted.





	Knotty Professor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bewarethesmirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewarethesmirk/gifts).



> Yes, the title is a pun. Because that's apparently what I do, title things with terrible "knotty" puns.
> 
> Commissioned fic for BewareTheSmirk (aka Stephanie) who wanted Professor Derek and student Stiles with werewolves and knotting and I am here to deliver the porn, as I also do. And just as always, I got carried away and wrote twice the 10K word request. Whomp!

Stiles Stilinski hadn't watched a lot of porn, no matter what his friends said. He just...

Okay, maybe objectively, he'd watched a lot of porn. But honestly, how the hell was he supposed to figure out what he liked to see play out on whatever screen he was watching on, what he himself wanted to try out, what got him going and what didn't. Trial and error worked not just in practical application, but also in viewing habits.

Point was, over the years, he'd seen his fair share of scenarios and tropes and cliché set-ups. The hot college professor and the twink student “discussing his paper during office hours” was an oldie but a goodie, tried and true and recycled. Stiles had watched more than a few that followed that narrative, wondering if there was some deep seated issue with his sheriff father that led him to having a kink regarding authority figures, formulating fantasies over some teacher keeping him behind after school for “extra credit” so he could make up for going off on some random tangent during his essays.

Unfortunately for him, none of his teachers at Beacon Hills High had been good jerking it material, all of them either creepy, douchy, or old and gross, meaning he'd had to either replace the image in his head with whatever recent porn star he'd watched or his own made-up fantasy man. It worked though, got him through whatever self-love session he was indulging in that night, and he liked to think his imagination and creativity were getting pretty good because of it.

Until college anyway.

More specifically, until day one of his Werewolf Dynamics and Physiology course, when he first laid eyes on Professor Derek Hale.

Fuck, even the man's name was sexy as hell. Combine that with the fact that he was six feet and two-hundred pounds of Alpha Werewolf and...yeah, primo fantasy fuel right there. And that was without even getting to the chiseled jaw, sharp cheekbones, and blade nose, or those gorgeous green eyes framed with long black lashes that had Stiles actually sitting front row and paying attention for once. Then there was the facial hair that had started out as nicely trimmed stubble at the beginning of the year and had grown into a nice bushy beard—complete with attractive as fuck gray streaks on his chin—now at the end of the semester, thick expressive eyebrows, and bunny teeth that were both cute and hot as hell.

Stiles could wax poetic about the man's ass for years.

Really, Professor Hale was the most attractive person Stiles had seen in or out of porn, in real life or on his screen. And the way he constantly dressed in tight jeans that had to take an hour to get on or off, button-downs with waistcoats or warm knit sweaters now that it was getting colder, he had the Sexy Teacher Aesthetic down pat.

All of it was great for Stiles when his roommate Oliver was off at the library or study group or wherever. Not so great when he was in class trying to hide a boner caused by the man's sexy rumble of a voice or Stiles' own imagination getting away with him, picturing himself leaning over that desk or grabbing onto that ass as the professor pounding away inside of him. Ordinarily it wouldn't be an issue, but considering the teach was a _Werewolf_ and had a nose sensitive enough to pick up on emotions people were emitting, it was harder to hide the attraction. Sometimes he found himself hoping that his own arousal would be hidden amongst the desire being put out by his classmates, knowing from gossip that he wasn't the only one who had it hot for teacher. But then Derek would look right at him while Stiles was mid-fantasy, his eyes flashing red so fast the student wasn't sure he didn't imagine it, the action ratcheting up his own need. He'd catch the professor clearing his throat or swallowing as he tersely jerked his head away, like he was forcing himself to focus on what he'd been saying.

At least Stiles was pretty sure that's what was going on. It could've been his imagination running away with him again, the fact that he was hoping for it so hard that he was seeing things that weren't there. Not to mention the fact that his own sexual experience was limited to a high school girlfriend and a few hook-ups over the semester, most of them with humans. The couple Werewolves he'd slept with seemed to keep their animal side more in check than he honestly would've liked—another fantasy brought on by too much porn and that same high school girlfriend who liked to scratch his back with her claws—meaning no eye flashes, no claws on his skin, no fangs sinking in.

Shame.

One Werewolf he hooked-up with said it was because he couldn't really control that side of him, was worried he'd accidentally inflict permanent damage or even kill Stiles. Which, of course, led Stiles to wonder if Professor Hale was more in touch with his wolfy nature, having been Born rather than Bitten, as well as older and more mature, with more experience. It made him fantasize about the Alpha holding him down with fangs in the back of his neck, claws dragging down his skin as he rutted away in Stiles, the knot Born Wolves were graced with expanding and locking him inside.

Which, of course, led to Stiles somehow spewing out a three thousand word paper on knotting, Mating habits, and Ruts for class, when he was supposed to have written about...

Well, fuck if he knew what the original topic was. Not what he'd written, that was for sure, considering the Post-It note that'd been stuck to his paper when he got it back, instructing him to stop by Professor Hale's office that afternoon.

Shit.

Wasn't the first time Stiles had done this. He'd pulled the same shit back in high school, written a paper on the history of circumcision—that was once again inspired by porn and made him a little pissed off that he'd undergone the procedure when he'd been born—for his economics class. Damn thing had been good, too, was worthy of an A. Instead he got a note to talk to his teacher, who also talked to his dad about it, who then gave him a pained look after that fateful Parent-Teacher Conference and commented that he didn't need to say anything but to pay more attention to his writing topic next time.

Good thing those conferences didn't happen in college and his old man wasn't gonna hear about this paper. He had enough problems with his heart and his health without Stiles continuously taking off years from his life. Meaning there was no way Stiles was confessing to this little conference of his own, adding it to a seemingly never-ending list of shit he was keeping from his dad.

Oh well.

Professor Hale's office was located in the basement of the Sociology building at the end of the long hallway. The blinds on his door were always closed—at least that's what Stiles had heard—rumors on campus stating that he was anti-social, only ever really spending time with his Pack. It wasn't that he was unfriendly or rude or anything along those lines. From what Stiles understood, he just wasn't a fan of conversing with or being around other people, be it students, faculty, or any other staff member. His gruff demeanor made itself known during lectures and those eyebrows seemed to have a default position of “Agitated At Life”, something that seemed to be a detractor for a lot of folks, leading to countless comments over “ _yeah, he's attractive, but he looks like he's constipated or homicidal. Or both_ ”.

Stiles thought it just made him hotter.

Not that he needed to be thinking that at that moment, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck in anticipation, standing outside the Professor's door, taking in the nameplate affixed to the wall beside it. He needed to forget all about how hot the man was, how bad Stiles wanted to be bent over his desk, how many pornos this current scenario fell into. No, he had to be professional and mature and make sure his grade wasn't too badly affected by his off-topic essay.

Well fuck. If that wasn't another porn set-up...

Right. No porn. Bad. No thinking about that.

He smeared a hand down his face before finally raising his hand to knock, his parka rustling with the movement. Wasn't it supposed to snow at some point that night? When exactly was it supposed to start? He needed to figure this shit out, considering the fact that he was a California kid transplanted on the east coast for school and therefore had no experience dealing with the frozen white stuff falling from the sky.

“White stuff” was a terrible euphemism and did not help keep his mind out the X-Rated section. Typical.

A gruff “come in” sounded from the other side of the door and Stiles did just that, closing the door over behind himself. The office wasn't all that special or fancy yet he still found his eyes roaming the space, taking in as much detail as he could. The walls were gray, furniture all metal and utilitarian, most likely provided by the school. Shelves ran along part of the right wall, covered in books of varying sizes, colors, and ages. On the left, file cabinets and bins. All around were framed posters and prints of wolves, of Werewolf anatomy, of Pack Dynamic infographs.

Giving the space another glance-over, Stiles noted a distinct lack of Christmas décor, despite the fact that it was halfway through December and the semester was ending in a matter of days. The rest of the university was decorated, including the lecture hall Professor Hale used, yet there wasn't a wreath hung or tinsel strewn or bow stuck anywhere within his office. Combined with the lack of personal items, the room gave off a cold feeling not unlike the air outside and Stiles wondered how the hell Professor Hale could get any work done.

Then again, it was supposed to be a space _for_ work, not a bedroom or living room or Den.

Then again again, so was his dad's office and it still had personal memorabilia up: a flag he'd been given when he left the Army, family photos, one of those singing Billy Bigmouth Bass things Stiles got him as a gag gift one year. If a sheriff could bring a little warmth to his workspace, then so could a college professor.

Right?

Or maybe Professor Hale just wasn't a knickknacks kinda man, not into personal belongings. He could've been minimalist and only kept the bare essentials of what he needed to do his job. Wasn't like Stiles really knew him all that well.

He ignored the pang in his chest at that, feeling stupid for it. The man was his _professor_ and admittedly his crush but it wasn't like anything would ever happen between them, wasn't like anything would come of Stiles' one-sided attraction—even if part of him was convinced it wasn't all that one-sided.

And once again, that wasn't something he should be thinking about.

Focusing on the task at hand, he found Professor Hale behind his metal desk, writing away on something. The desk itself was also free from clutter and superfluous belongings, just a simple desk calender blotter, a stack of papers on either side of him that he seemed to be going through, a university mug turned pencil-pen holder, and the Yeti tumbler he always brought with him to class. Stiles spied a table in the back corner that the shelves had obscured, Keurig machine settled on top, box of little K-cups next to it, along with a box of sweetener packets and a bottle of powdered creamer.

Gross.

But when in a bind, caffeine is caffeine.

Stiles preferred his in the form of highly sugared energy drinks but to each their own.

Crossing his 'T's and dotting his 'I's, Professor Hale finished what he was doing, clicking his pen closed and setting the paper atop the pile on his right. He lifted his head to meet Stiles' eyes and the human had to remind himself to breath, to act normal. Not that his body hadn't already betrayed him, what with the way his lungs seemed to freeze and his heart began to race.

The man was too pretty and it was unfair on pathetic little humans like him.

“Mr Stilinski,” Professor Hale greeted flatly before leaning back, chair squeaking as he did so. He was unfairly dressed again, white button-down, black skinny tie, gray vest, and black skinny jeans that honestly looked like they'd been sewn on, and Stiles had to fight to keep his eyes on the man's face, had to remember who this was and why he was there in the first place.

Which was...

Nothing to do with a porno.

Wait, sort of had to do with a porno really.

“You left a note on my paper about coming to see you?” Stiles prompted, hating the rasp in his voice but refusing to acknowledge it by clearing his throat. Chances were the professor was already fully aware of the fact that Stiles was constantly thrumming in a low level of arousal when around the man, heart always racing and cock always half-hard and scent probably desirous as fuck. No need to bring more attention to it by making it obvious that the attraction also made his throat tight and his voice husky.

Professor Hale nodded, twirling his pen between his fingers before gesturing to one of the two seats on the opposite side of his desk. “Sit,” he instructed and Stiles glanced down at the metal and vinyl chair that looked a lot like the shitty ones in doctor's waiting rooms or hospital hallways.

Yeah, he was suppressing that memory.

Letting his backpack slide off his arm, he set it on the chair on his right before taking the one on the left, facing his professor. He figured he might as well take his jacket off, too, the parka a little too big and clunky to be comfortable while sitting. Left in his favorite flannel shirt and warm thermal underneath, he felt significantly underdressed compared to his fashionable and well-groomed professor, felt an even bigger separation between the two of them.

Probably for the best really. A reminder of their positions and why shit could never—and should never—happen between them.

The tightness in his chest didn't seem to agree but what the fuck did it know?

Professor Hale's eyes darted down to said chest before quickly locking back on Stiles', brow pulling into a hard frown. He scratched at his forehead and cleared his throat as he resettled in his own seat, sitting more upright than before, finally clasping his hands together on top of his desk. “Yes,” he began, clearing his throat once more, and if Stiles didn't know any better, the tips of his ears had gotten a little redder.

Or maybe they'd been red the entire time thanks to the biting cold outside and Stiles just didn't notice until that moment. Who knew really.

“I actually have a lot of things I wanted to discuss with you over that paper, starting with the reasoning behind your choosing to write it in the first place.”

Well, shit.

Stiles went wide-eyed for a moment, mouth opening and a croaking noise coming from the back of his throat as he struggled to come up with a response. Hell, he had no idea why his brain went off on the tangents it did—at least ordinarily. How the hell was he supposed to explain the way his mind didn't seem to follow any sane or logical straight path about anything? Finstock back in high school didn't ask him to explain or justify his circumcision paper, just handed it back with a shake of the head and a disgusted expression as he grumbled out a “what the hell, Bilinski?” before moving on to the next student.

But now, Hale _was_ asking him to do that, and there was no way he could actually admit to having gotten off-track during the research process, fallen down another Google hole, and struck with the inspiration to write about knots and Ruts while fantasizing about the professor who would be reading said paper.

Fuck, fuck, double fuck.

“I, uh,” he began awkwardly, clearing his throat as he wrung the back of his neck. His cheeks felt hot despite the cold temperature of the room and the winter air he'd just come from and he knew his face had to be splotchy as fuck at that moment.

Not helping his case in the slightest.

Neither was stalling.

Not that he was stalling per se. More like unable to come up with an actual response.

Yeah, he wasn't gonna pass this class, he just knew it.

“Honestly?” he tried again, dropping his hand onto his lap and letting out a weak laugh. “I, uh. Kinda lost focus during the research part and just. Wrote some shit.”

Professor Hale cocked a single eyebrow, yet the rest of his face remained completely impassive and blank. “I figured that,” he stated flatly and Stiles' eyes narrowed into a glare on automatic. The man didn't have to be a jackass about shit. “I also figured the entirety of it was purely from a research standpoint and not through practical application or experience.”

Wait, what?

Stiles blinked a few times to clear his head, to try and wrap his mind around what he'd just heard. Yeah, the professor was right, but he didn't think the paper had made it as obvious as the Werewolf was implying.

But what the fuck did he know really, being a human and all.

“Uhhh,” he stretched the word out, not entirely sure how to respond, what the reasoning was for bringing that up, where the conversation was going.

“If you're going to discuss a topic in depth the way you attempted, then you should really be more knowledgeable on the subject and while I understand that you're a human and therefore can only know so much, you could still stand to gain more experience on _being_ knotted or taking part in an actual Mating ritual with a Werewolf during a Heat or Rut.”

Did he—was—holy shit. His teacher was seriously discussing his sex life.

Stiles simply gaped, his brain shorting out. Alright, so his sex life may have been a bit lacking and he certainly hadn't indulged in any kink or idea he'd gained over the years, but there was no reason for his professor to point it out, to imply that it was obvious he'd missed out on a few things. Kinda rude. And hurtful. Made him feel pathetic as fuck in all honesty.

Suddenly, he felt incredibly defensive, his jaw snapping shut and his brow furrowing into a hard glare as he met Professor Hale right in the eye. Probably a mistake given the whole _Alpha Werewolf_ thing, but goddammit, the man had been rude as fuck and he needed to know.

“I've had sex with Werewolves before,” he stated sharply, resisting the urge to cross his arms lest he come across as pouting and even more pathetic. He kind of wished he was standing so he could put his hands on his hips, maybe even tower over the Werewolf and seem more intimidating.

Not that he could ever actually be successful in intimidating Professor Hale. Putting aside the fact that the older man was...well... _older_ and a superior, he also had about fifty pounds of muscle on Stiles, as well as the whole claws and fangs thing that came with being a Werewolf.

Still. Stiles could pretend. Or at least trick himself into feeling intimidating and more superior.

Right?

Both of Hale's eyebrows rose at his statement, at the way Stiles had just casually blurted out that he'd slept with Werewolves—and to his damn professor, too—and in a defensive manner. His eyes went red before he shut them tight, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a deep breath, seemed to be steadying himself. A moment later, he reopened his eyes to their usual green hue, face impassive once more as he stared at his student. “Be that as it may, the way this paper reads, you apparently had sex with Werewolves who kept their animal selves in check for whatever reason. No knotting, no Marking, no mention of claws or fangs or eye flashes, no mention of what it's like to be on the recipient end of a Rutting Wolf, no mention of anything that's typical of _really_ having sex or Mating with a Werewolf. In all honesty, regardless of whatever species your partners may have been, you pretty much had sex with humans.”

Well, shit. Maybe he needed to uncheck that box on his Sex Bucket List.

“I had a Coyote girlfriend claw me up,” Stiles admitted, wondering once more why he felt the need point this shit out and make himself seem more experienced. He wasn't supposed to be impressing his teacher or make himself look better so that maybe Hale would decide he was worthy of something. Really, he was supposed to be defending his paper in the hopes that he could get a good grade despite the fact that the topic wasn't what had been assigned. But instead, he was defending his sexual experiences.

Or apparent lack thereof.

Professor Hale snorted through his nose, not sounding all that impressed, and Stiles' face heated up further, causing his eyes to further narrow. “Any human female with long nails could achieve the same result.”

Fuck. Good point.

Stiles roughed his hand down his face, stifling his groan. He was gonna fail this essay, and probably this class considering what a huge chunk of his grade this paper counted for.

Winter break was already off to a great fucking start.

A deep sigh came from the professor and Stiles lowered his hand to find him scratching at his long beard, eyes contemplative. Finally, he folded his hands on the desk before lifting one right back up to gesture at his student. “Mr Stilinski, you're a bright man, even if your focus is lacking at times.”

Stiles opened his mouth to defend himself once again, only to realize that, yeah, he had a point. Focus had never been his thing. Combined with a teacher that was straight outta pornos, paying attention was even more impossible.

He shut his mouth without saying a damn thing.

“I think if you gained some actual real world experience with the topics in your paper, it could really strengthen your discussion and make it more believable, possibly even raise your grade.”

Wait.

What?

No way.

Okay, so not only was his professor discussing his sex life, but he was flat out telling Stiles he needed to get fucked by a Werewolf and knotted.

Was this—

How was this _not_ a porn scenario?!

Really, all that was missing was Professor Hale leaning back in his chair, smirking in a salacious manner as he spread his legs, and telling Stiles he could start gaining some experience right at that moment.

Maybe Stiles should take the initiative, ask the teacher if there was any way to follow through on his suggestion, maybe bare his neck and let the arousal leak into his scent.

Shit, just the thought of it had his cock twitching in his pants, his own legs spreading, and for once, he didn't try and distract himself with thoughts of his grandmother or baseball or nuns or any other shit. He just let it happen, let it heat his blood and flow through him, hoping it colored his scent and the Werewolf could pick up on it, take the hint.

Professor Hale's eyes flashed red and a low growl started in his chest before he cut it off and blinked the color away. Goddamn if it wasn't sexy as hell though, the sound rumbling and guttural, low and heady. Stiles could imagine hearing it in his ear as the Werewolf pounded into him, filled him up, knotting him and keeping them tied together for twenty, thirty minutes. Arousal pooled in his gut, his cock fattening up, and his teeth sank into his lower lip to hold back any sounds of his own.

“Shit,” Hale swore under his breath, rubbing his eyes before staring at something above Stiles' head. The human looked behind himself to find a clock fixed to the wall over the door, noting how it was nearly three. “I have another lecture to get to, but this discussion isn't over.” He pointed at his student in warning and Stiles swallowed, the words equal parts arousing and intimidating. The professor pulled open a drawer and took out a pad of Post-It notes, scribbling on the top of one before peeling it off and handing it over. “Be here at seven tonight so we can continue this conversation. Unless that's a problem for you, Mr Stilinski?”

Stiles shook his head, taking in the address written in scratchy block letters. “I can clear my schedule,” he commented, figuring there was no point in being honest about having no plans in the first place. Oliver was supposed to be heading home for the holidays any moment, hopefully before Stiles got back to the dorm so he wouldn't be roped in to help in any capacity. With his friends all either gone or in the midst of last minute cramming, Stiles' social life was zeroed out.

Lamely enough.

Professor Hale nodded once. “Goodbye for now then, Mr Stilinski.”

With that obvious dismissal, Stiles rose to his feet, grabbing his jacket and backpack then scurrying out before his teacher could decide to fail him anyway.

It wasn't until he was outside and the freezing air hit him once more than he realized that a) he hadn't put his jacket on and b) his dreams of a smut movie reenactment had been dashed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Stiles did several things over the next few hours while waiting for his upcoming appointment.

One was getting roped into helping Oliver anyway, his roommate unfortunately still at the dorm and in need of taking his luggage down to his waiting taxi. Because he couldn't just take a single suitcase with him like a normal person, oh no, not fucking Oliver.

Next was reading his paper over, as well as the notes Professor Hale had left in red ink. He pointed out inaccuracies on the sensations of knotting, both giving and receiving, corrected the time frame for knots themselves, as well as Heats and Ruts and how often they occurred, questioned the fact that Stiles had made no mention of True Mates and how they affected the drive to Breed and the inability to hold back one's knot. It was a mix of things he honestly hadn't known, as well as inaccurate information put on the internet—shockingly enough—and he could see where he'd messed up, why his teacher had told him his paper had been lacking.

He tried to look it up himself, not quite finding a lot of it, coming across more holes than information at times. He did, however, find the reminder that a Wolf—especially an Alpha—flashed their eyes for more reason than just arousal, that it was a sign their human half was losing its hold on the animal side, either due to extreme emotion of any kind—most notable being sexual desire and anger—or how close a full moon was. The same thing happened with growls and unless one was a Wolf or had come to understand that particular Wolf's habits and sounds, it was practically impossible to differentiate the meaning behind the growl.

Meaning that the reaction Professor Hale had exhibited in his office could've been annoyance and anger rather than arousal, especially given the fact that he'd dismissed Stiles soon after.

Disappointing, but to be expected really.

Shoving all that aside, Stiles did a Google search of the address he'd been given, finding an apartment complex at the end of it. Possibly Hale's residence, he figured, wondering why the teacher would invite a student to come there to discuss a paper.

Not that he was gonna argue with it. Fuck no. He was too damn curious on the best of days and after seeing how spartan Hale's office was, he was even more interested in seeing if he lived that way, too.

That, plus the countless x-rated fantasies that came flooding in once he realized where the address led.

Not that there was a snowball's chance in Hell for any of them to come to fruition. Still, he cleaned himself out thoroughly and washed sparingly, forgoing any body wash and deodorant, knowing Werewolves preferred the natural odor one emitted.

In all honesty, Stiles was pretty sure he was getting his hopes up for nothing, that he was about to be incredibly disappointed. Considering his epic fuck-up of writing the wrong thing—and not even writing it _well_ —there was a huge chance that his professor had, in fact, been growling in aggravation and was about to metaphorically rip Stiles a new one before failing him.

Shit, he should've checked the phase of the moon that night. Now all he could think about was it being a full moon and Hale was about to take his Werewolfy rage out on him, but wanted to do it from the comfort of his own basement apartment where he had a drain in the middle of the floor to easily wash away the blood.

Or maybe Stiles shouldn't have watched a horror film while trying to write his essay.

Was that what his paper was supposed to have been about?

Maybe?

Too late now. Clearly.

Stiles left a few minutes earlier than the GPS predicted he'd need, knowing that there was a chance that he'd hit traffic or get lost despite satellite signals and real time updates. But apparently the cold air and the location of the apartment building being as far from shopping as possible meant Stiles was able to get there with no real issues—beyond trying to get off campus amid all the students finished with exams and papers and able to head home for the holidays. He still had to drive with care as snow began to lightly fall, trying to remember what exactly had been discussed with his dad regarding snow tires on his Jeep. He honestly had no clue if he needed them, couldn't remember shit.

Growing up in California really did leave him ill-prepared for life on the east coast.

The building was near the outskirts of town, in a nicer neighborhood full of houses in the seven figures. His clunker of a Jeep stood out amongst countless Range Rovers, Mercedes, Beemers, and Porsches, and he wondered which one belonged to his professor, if he was falling into stereotypes and overcompensating for something by getting a nice ass apartment and a nice ass car.

Then he wondered how the hell the man could afford to live somewhere like this on a professor's salary. Not exactly a profitable career, at least not to that level of living status.

Maybe he had rich parents.

Lucky bastard had it good from every angle, holy shit.

The building was new but designed to look old, almost a U-shape where it jutted out on either side, made with white brick. The lobby was designed in much the same way, attempting to appear classic and vintage, floors that may or may not have been marble, gold sconces on the walls, filigree trim on everything. A large tree was decked out with gold ribbon and ornaments and sat in the middle of the lobby, invisible speakers playing an instrumental version of a Christmas classic— _Silent Night_ , Stiles was pretty sure—a white garland and gold bowed wreath on the front of the doorman's desk. Stiles approached and informed him that he was there to see Derek Hale, then filled out a log-in book when instructed.

“Take the left elevator to the top floor. He's in the west penthouse.”

Stiles' eyebrows shot up, a little stunned. Was surprising enough that he lived in an expensive building like that, but to be in the _penthouse_...

Whoa.

There was definitely more to the Werewolf than met the eye, that was for damn sure.

In the elevator, Stiles found himself unable to think about anything else except where his professor lived, _how_ he lived. Was he a trust fund brat? Did he forgo following in a parent's footsteps into whatever successful business they ran and decided to teach instead, but still took advantage of the money they'd earned? Did he have a rich-ass roommate and he was crashing on that person's couch or in their guest room? Was he subletting said guest room?

The latter options seemed the most likely, considering a professor's salary and how empty his office was. Maybe it was sparsely decorated because he just couldn't afford a whole lotta shit.

Or maybe Stiles was just letting his imagination get away with him and run around in a thousand different directions at once—as it was apt to do—and he should just stop speculating over bullshit that didn't really pertain to him and that he'd probably never get the answers to. He wasn't there to figure out how Professor Hale was able to afford anything. He was there to discuss his paper.

Presumably discuss his paper.

And how he needed more experience to write it better and more accurately.

Jesus Christ, he knew he wasn't about to get laid by his professor, but was he maybe about to get sex tips? Maybe Hale really did have a roommate, a Werewolf one, and he was about to pimp Stiles out to him as a favor to the penthouse owner and a twisted sense of helping for the student.

Right, hadn't he just scolded his imagination for going way too far with this shit?

Honestly, now that he was thinking about it all, he probably did watch too much porn.

Shit. Now all he could think about was that maybe his teacher had a point in his lack of experience. He clearly needed to get laid more so he could stop fantasizing about all these stupid scenarios in which he'd get fucked. Might not happen any time soon though, considering it was winter break and most of the campus was gonna be empty as a good majority of the student body headed home for the holidays.

The elevator dinged as it reached the top floor of the ten-story building. The gold doors rolled open smoothly and Stiles adjusted the falling strap of his backpack as he exited, noting how the hallway stretched left and a single door stood straight ahead with “Ten West” on in gold letters on it. Stepping forward, he knocked, hating how his heart was racing in his chest. He needed to get a grip on his emotions and anxiety before the Werewolf could pick up on his nerves.

Really, as he thought about it, he had nothing really to worry about. He'd already been told his paper was wrong and why. Wasn't like he could hear anything worse than what he'd already been told.

Then again, he was stepping into the unknown once more. He had no clue what was on the other side of the door, why he was there, what was about to happen. All his theories were way off, he knew that much, but that meant he was clueless about what else he could be there for.

Meaning he was freaking out.

Fuck.

He wiped his palms on the sides of his khakis, taking a deep breath that did absolutely fucking nothing for him, and started sending up prayers to whatever benevolent being was in a helpful mood. He tried to focus his hearing past his pounding heart in order to pick up on footsteps coming close or locks coming undone, yet there was nothing on the other side of the wood. Probably should knock again.

Or use the damn doorbell that was next to the frame.

Goddammit.

He raised his hand to press the button, only for the door to open. He jolted in surprise, wondering how the hell he hadn't picked up on anything on the other side. Then again, the place might've been built with Werewolves in mind, so it was more soundproof than standard apartments.

Professor Hale stood on the other side, dressed down in jeans and a black v-neck sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It was a lot more casual than his usual outfits, yet still as hot, still as attractive. If anything, it made him seem softer, more approachable, and Stiles fought the urge to rub at his mouth to make sure he wasn't drooling.

His cock was definitely twitching though, especially when he took in how fitted the sweater was, tight around muscular arms and a broad chest. The man shouldn't be teaching, he should've been a model, an a-list actor, a porn star.

Stiles seriously needed to stop thinking about porn. Honestly.

Not that it was all that easy to do that at that moment, not with his hot teacher standing there in painted on jeans with a bulge in the front that lead Stiles to believe the man wasn't trying to overcompensate by living in such fancy digs.

That, or he stuffed.

For the sake of his own fantasies, Stiles was gonna believe it was real.

Didn't the professor once say that Werewolves tended to be a little more well-endowed due to the need to procreate, as well as the whole knot thing? So far Stiles' experiences led to that being a fact.

He knew he lacked the right anatomy and organs, but Stiles wouldn't mind helping the teacher procreate.

Okay, yeah, no more “twink gets bred by thick Werewolf cock” porn for him.

And he should also stop staring at his professor's crotch.

Snapping his eyes up, Stiles found a smirk on the older man's face and not for the first time, he wished he had Werewolf powers so he could tell what someone else was thinking or feeling through chemosignals or the way their heart was beating. Would've been nice to know what Hale was grinning about.

That being said, Stiles was pretty sure it was the first time he'd even seen his professor smile at all. Definitely warranted an overwhelming desire to find out the reason behind it.

Werewolves really did have it better than humans.

“Mr Stilinski,” the older man greeted and Stiles was reminded of the formality of their meeting, despite the informal setting and the fact that the smirk he still wore didn't exactly reek of professionalism. Nor did the way his green eyes roamed over him, making him feel naked, despite the flannel-lined khakis and big down jacket he wore.

Fuck, now he was hot, and he had to fight the urge to unzip his jacket to relieve himself some, not wanting to make it seem like he was purposely doing it as an invitation to—

Wait. Why the fuck would he _not_ want it to seem like that? Really, he should put out all the hints and clues and scents in order to try and make something happen. That's how it worked in—

Right. He was taking life lessons from porn again. Goddammit.

Oh well. Worse case scenario, he got turned down and made an ass of himself. And given how fucking hot Professor Hale was, Stiles wouldn't be the first or last student to pull that same shit.

Go big or go home. YOLO. All those other stupid fucking cliches, all ringing in his head, as he unzipped his parka, revealing the flannel shirt he had on underneath. Not the sexiest outfit in the entire world, but it was comfortable and warm and frankly, he looked fucking good in it, especially when he actually buttoned it up the way he had it at that moment.

Not to mention the fact that Professor Hale had already seen him on laundry day wearing ragged cargo pants and a faded graphic tee saying _Support Single Moms_ with a silhouette of a stripper on a pole, AKA Stiles at his Worst. What he was wearing in that moment wouldn't really change much.

One could hope and dream though, right?

And dream Stiles did. Often. To the point where it was a miracle he was able to pass Professor Hale's class in the first place.

Or not, since he had no clue how this conversation over his essay was gonna go.

Professor Hale's dipped down once more and Stiles knew it was a good idea to forgo a shirt under his flannel and leave the top few buttons undone, putting his collarbone on display. Just sucked the collar of his parka was so high. Was great for warding off the cold, not so much for showing unmarked skin and tempting a Werewolf.

“Glad you came.”

“Well, I showed, but I haven't come yet,” Stiles blurted out without thinking, watching as the older man's eyes widened and his brows practically met his hairline.

He should probably feel bad, and while part of him was ashamed at the fact that he'd just said that to an educator, the other, much bigger part of him couldn't regret it in the slightest. Not when Hale's smirk grew more lascivious as his eyebrows returned to their normal position and he let out a small laugh through his nose.

“Emphasis on the ' _yet_ '?” the professor stated and Stiles swallowed hard, his cock twitching in his khakis once more.

Holy shit.

The Werewolf looked him up and down one last time before stepping to the side and sweeping his arm in an inviting gesture. “Come on in. Would be much easier to finish our earlier conversation in my apartment than in the hall.”

Wow, okay, yeah. Holy shit.

Didn't quite answer all the questions he had regarding this residence, but...but he had no idea where he was going with that thought, not when his blood was starting to migrate to the wrong head.

Nodding once, Stiles did as he was told, entering the apartment. The interior was warm, metaphorically at least, given the fact that Werewolves ran hot and tended to keep their thermostats lower than humans. The walls were painted a homey yellow, furniture a dark cherry and red leather, and it smelled of pine and cinnamon, like how Christmas should smell.

Which was somewhat of a surprise, especially when he took note of the large tree in the living room, decorated with thick red ribbon and matching ornaments, the wreath above a fireplace, garland on the mantle. Not to mention the fact that the place was also packed with books, framed photos covering one of the walls and sitting on end tables, knickknacks laying around. It was the exact opposite of his office, the cold desolate space adding to the professor's standoffish personality, while his apartment was warm and inviting.

Stiles wondered if it actually _was_ his apartment, or if it was one of his earlier theories about staying in a guest room or subletting. Or maybe the Werewolf was just super private and preferred to keep this side to himself. Maybe he had such a chilling office in order to keep students at arms length for whatever reason.

It was just more bullshit swirling in his head and Stiles knew he was never gonna get an answer to any of it. It was just gonna drive him insane and keep him awake, cause him to space out more during class as he tried to figure out the other man and failed miserably.

Maybe he should ask.

Maybe he shouldn't and make sure that his throat wasn't ripped out. With his teacher's teeth.

“You can put your jacket anywhere,” Hale informed as he shut the door and headed into the room himself. “Same with your bag.”

Stiles nodded more, letting his backpack slide off his arm and land on an armchair. Next was his parka and he laid that over the back of the chair, in much the same way as he had in the office earlier. His professor gestured for him to sit and he did just that as well, lowering himself onto the couch right by his stuff, rubbing his palms against his thighs. There was a slight tremble to them and while he hoped it wasn't noticeable, he knew it didn't matter if the involuntary actions were visible or not. His nerves would be discernible in his scent. Nothing could be hidden from a Werewolf.

“Drink?” his professor offered, standing just inside what amounted to the living room, arms folded before he dropped them to his sides, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets then dropped them again. It was like he was unsure of what to do with his hands and Stiles found it oddly endearing, calming as well, knowing that the older man seemed just as nervous, just as uncertain as the human. “I've got beer, bourbon, some vodka one of my sisters left behind, wine left by the other sister.”

A confused frown formed on Stiles' face, first at the mention of siblings, of _sisters_. It was another hint about who Professor Hale was outside of being an educator, though not a great deal of info. Were they older or younger or both? Were they Alphas of their own Packs like he was? What did they do for a living? Were they also loaded?

Then he realized what had been put on offer and he found it strange that an educator would try to serve alcohol to a student who was legally a minor.

“I'm not old enough to drink,” he pointed out, scratching at an eyebrow absently.

Hale snorted and rolled his eyes. “Neither is the vodka sister, but that doesn't stop her. Doesn't seem to stop a lot of young folks. And I can't exactly chastise you for it, since I drank underage myself.”

Huh. The new information was fascinating in a way Stiles couldn't explain or understand, but he filed it away nonetheless, hoping it would help him figure out the enigma of a Werewolf before him. “Bourbon'd be great,” he requested, figuring one drink wouldn't hurt too much, not if he sipped it slowly and stuck to just the one. He still had to drive back to his dorm after all. And if it was too much, he could always just get an Uber or something.

The professor nodded and headed to the kitchen, where the opening of cabinets and clinking of glasses sounded out. Stiles rolled his shoulders, trying to relax himself, trying to remind himself it wasn't as big a deal as he was making everything out to be. Another reason why he requested alcohol, rather than lying and saying he didn't drink, could he just have a water: hopefully it would help to calm him down further, ease him in an uneasy situation.

Hopefully.

It didn't take long for Hale to return, a squat glass in each hand, both half full with amber liquid. Stiles took the one he was offered, smiling a thanks, bringing it to his nose to pick up the hint of cinnamon in the drink. Gesturing a “cheers” at his teacher, he took a swig, enjoying the smooth way the bourbon went down his throat, the slight burn of the cinnamon spice leaving a small taste of Christmas on his tongue.

Professor Hale sat on the opposite end of the couch, sipping his own bourbon before placing it on a coaster on a well worn coffee table covered in scuffs and scratches and darkened age spots. Seemed almost humorous that he use a coaster to preserve it, since the low furniture seemed genuinely aged and not purposely painted or created that way. Maybe it was a sentimental thing.

That thought in mind, Stiles respected the man and his belongings and put his own glass on a coaster as well before resting his elbows on his knees, angled just enough to be able to chat with his teacher. The professor himself was sitting with his back against the arm of the couch, ankle resting on his knee, arm stretched along the back of the sofa in a casual manner. He was a king in his castle, an Alpha comfortable in his Den, and the nonchalant ease surrounding him made him even more attractive. It was all Stiles could do to stay in place and not crawl over, straddle the man's lap, and grind down.

He lifted his eyes to find the Werewolf squeezing his shut tight for a moment, reopening them to his student's face before an easy grin slide across his own.

“Now. About your paper,” he began and Stiles' heart rate kicked up, remembering his poor grade, remembering what he'd already been told, remembering what he'd researched earlier that day. Hale let out a small laugh as his smirk grew more amused and even a little dangerous, predatory, reminding Stiles that the man wasn't quite human. “I take it you've given some thought to our earlier discussion?”

Stiles swallowed hard and nodded, reaching for his drink for another pull, wanting the alcohol to kick in already and make shit easier on him, even though he knew it wouldn't work like that. Fucking bummer really.

“Yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat as he put his glass back down. “I, uh. I read the notes you left on my paper, too. I had no idea Mates or True Mates affected knots like that. Or that True Mates were even a thing.”

Hale seesawed his head in contemplation. “True Mates are believed to be a fairy tale to some Wolves, a lot like the human belief of soul mates. Personally, I believe in them, based on the fact that my parents are True Mates and my own personal experience.”

Oh.

Well fuck.

The phrase “broken heart” always felt like a metaphor, a stupid expression that was just meant to explain someone being hurt when the one they cared about left or didn't feel the same. But at that moment, Stiles wondered if maybe there wasn't some accuracy to the phrase, that maybe it was more literal than he'd initially believed, given the way his chest hurt and his heart felt like it was crushed.

Hence that term, too, he figured. Having a “crush” on someone.

Because now Stiles was being crushed by his own crush, his heart broken by them, and he knew it was bleeding out into his scent, the disappointment and sadness at the realization that the Wolf he'd been fantasizing over for months was actually already taken by someone else, was “True Mates” with another.

Shit.

He'd taken for granted the fact that the man had no wedding ring on his finger, no Mating Bite on his neck, believing the lack of those things to mean he was single. But just because he didn't have a permanent someone didn't mean he was still on the market, just that he wasn't permanently tied down. And now, he was being made painfully aware—quite literally—that Professor Hale was definitely unavailable for more reasons than just the rules preventing a teacher from dating a student.

Stiles ducked his head, staring between his feet at the beige carpet. He no longer wanted to be there. He no longer wanted to know that this man's apartment was made of warm, earthy tones and smelled of pine and cinnamon and Christmas. He no longer wanted to see another facet, the more personal side of the man who's lecture Stiles attended three times a week. He no longer wanted to talk or drink or be around Hale for any reason.

But he didn't have a choice. He had to try and salvage his grade by remaining where he was, possibly advocating for a redo. Maybe he could ask if he could write it over again that weekend, maybe even that night. After all, it wasn't like final grades had to be turned in immediately. Right? He should still have just a tiny bit of time to fix his grade.

Professor Hale let out a sigh, fingers scratching at his beard, and Stiles tried to figure out the exact words needed in order to plead his case, gain the ability to redo it. Not that it mattered, since his teacher took his silence—and probably his scent—for something else and went on, speaking when it wasn't quite his turn.

“I had a lot of mixed feelings when I read your paper, most of which I shouldn't have, not as your professor.” He spoke lowly, casually, but with a deeper meaning and a heaviness that had Stiles turning his head to fix him with a confused look. “The professional part of me wasn't all that thrilled you went off topic from what was assigned, nor did it like the inaccuracies you portrayed. But the other part of me—” He trailed off at that, rubbing his closed eyes with his fingers and shifted almost imperceptibly in his seat.

Stiles sat up straighter at that, curious frown deepening, his heart pounding for a plethora of reasons. He was nervous over what was gonna come next, inquisitive, mind racing with what could possibly be said, excited to learn about what this other part of his teacher was and what it had thought. But he said nothing, lest he throw the man off and cause him to shut down, instead tangling his fingers together between his knees.

“The other part of me,” Hale tried again, hand returned to the back of the couch, eyes now half-lidded where they locked onto his student. “Was glad that your depiction of what it was like to be knotted was so inaccurate that it was obvious you'd never actually _been_ knotted. The thought of you being tied to some other random Werewolf was—” He stopped, fingers curling into a fist and eyes flashing red in a way that Stiles knew for sure he hadn't imagined. “You've been a problem for me all goddamn semester, you know that, right?”

Stiles' eyebrows shot up at that, dick pulsing at the huskiness that had enveloped the older man's voice, the rumble from his chest that accompanied it. It was like pure sex and he wanted to hear more of it, wanted to know what he could possibly do to coax out more of it.

Instead, all he could do was give a thready “I have?”, not entirely sure how exactly he'd been a problem.

Sure, he'd been a nuisance to teachers in the past, but that had usually been on purpose, or at the very least in obvious ways that made Stiles aware that he'd earned the detention he'd been given. But as far as he knew, he'd been on his best behavior in Hale's class.

Well, aside from the whole daydreaming and fantasizing and getting hard mid-lectures, but that couldn't be helped when his professor was out of a fucking triple X film.

“Yes. You have.” Hale's voice was still husky, thick, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. He leaned forward, moved closer, heavy lidded as he stared the human down. “You smell. So damn good. Tempting even, and it takes every ounce of self-control that I have to not bend you over my desk and Claim you in front of everyone. I spend far too much time thinking about how that pale neck of yours would look with my Bite on it.” At that, he reached out and lightly trailed his fingers over the side of Stiles' throat, right where a Werewolf's Mating Bite would go, and the human shivered, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to hold back any sounds.

Bad enough his cock was fattening up further, his arousal rushing thick and hot through his blood, the Alpha's words painting a perfect picture in his mind. He'd imagined that exact scenario countless times in the middle of class, despite a lack of exhibition kink, but an overwhelming need, desire to have the entire world know that he belonged to Hale, that Hale belonged to him in turn. He wanted to wear the Wolf's Mark, his scent, to be fucking ruined for anyone else, and here the man was, confessing to a similar fantasy.

Fuck, his dick was pretty much hard at that point and he knew there was no way he could hide the arousal in his scent.

Hale let out a groan, eyes flashing red and nostrils flaring, clearly picking up on what Stiles was putting out. His hand curled around the back of his student's neck, his thumb rubbing his pulse point repeatedly, and the human was suddenly vividly aware of the fact that this was a _Werewolf_ , that it would be practically nothing for him to just... pop a claw, sever that artery, and end him in a matter of seconds.

It was weirdly hot and weirdly spoke of the trust Stiles had for this man that he believed Hale wouldn't do it.

“I thought that paper of yours was gonna kill me,” the Alpha confessed, his eyes fixated on where his thumb still rubbed. “Reading about knots, knowing it was your words, your thoughts put together that way. I couldn't do anything except imagine doing just that to you, holding you down, tying you to me as I filled you beyond capacity, Marking you with my teeth and my scent and my cum so you'd reek of me for days, leaving no room for question over who you belonged to.”

At that, Stiles did groan, his head lolling to the side and baring the vulnerable part of him that had the Werewolf so fascinated, submitting. A rumble sounded up from the older man's chest, causing a smile to break out on his face, and his breathing became shakier, harder, as his body began thrumming like a live wire.

“Do it,” he managed to say, peering up to watch as green eyes popped up to meet his brown ones. “I'm not stopping you. In fact, I'm fully consenting right now.” The Werewolf seemed to freeze at that, eyes wide in disbelief and thumb no longer rubbing its soothing motions on the side of his neck. He lifted his head, facing Hale full on, confidence surging in him as he realized he had the power to stun a Supernatural being. “You said I needed more experience, right? That I should find out first hand what it was like to be knotted and fuck a more mature Werewolf. Why don't you show me yourself?”

Hale remained frozen for another moment before he seemed to snap himself out of it, growling lowly once more. His hand clamped down around Stiles' neck, making the human gasp, arousal blooming further and making his skin tingle with awareness.

Being manhandled like that was definitely a kink then.

Moving closer still, the Alpha got right in his student's face, noses almost touching, air passing between the two of them, Stiles' a little shakier than the Werewolf. “Just know that if we do, that if I decide to follow through on your suggestion, there would be no stopping until I've knotted you tight. I'd be in control the entire time, holding you down, fucking you like a Claim.”

The words had Stiles shivering and he swallowed hard before he was able to respond. “Good. It's what I want.” His eyes darted down to catch the way his teacher's lips parted as he inhaled sharply. “I want to be controlled, owned, possessed. I want your teeth in my neck and your knot in my ass and your scent all over me. I want you to fuck me in any way you see fitting, any way you want, no holding back. Just. Nothing permanent or involving things that should take place in a bathroom. Everything else, I want it. From you.”

A low growl and a flash of red eyes was all the warning Stiles got before Hale's mouth was on his in a claiming kiss. It was rough, hard, no gentle lead-up, no gradual build, no testing the waters. This was it, a domination of his mouth in a precursor to a domination of the rest of him.

He groaned, loud and long, eyelids fluttering closed. He went limp, pliant, yielding against the Werewolf completely when his lips moved, when his tongue brushed against them for entrance. Hale taste of the cinnamon bourbon they'd both been drinking and something sweet but bitter, like dark chocolate. Between that and the way he seemed to be determined to map out the inside of Stiles' mouth and find every single weak spot he had, the human's head was spinning and his skin was heating up, making him paranoidly aware that he'd forgone deodorant before heading over.

Hale's hand slipped down, joining the other in a quest to unbutton Stiles' flannel, their lips still moving together. He got half the shirt undone before he parted the fabric, pulling away so he could bury his face in the crook of the human's neck. Stiles tilted his head to give him more room, more skin, the Alpha huffing against the tender flesh, causing goosebumps to break out over him and a shiver to race up his spine. He felt the wet glide of a tongue laving him, over his weak spot, over his pulse point, and a broken moan left him, high pitched and whining. A growl rumbled from his professor, arms wrapping around his waist to haul him in close as the Alpha continued to taste him.

Fuck, Stiles felt dizzy, panting as he sat there, strong arms the only thing preventing him from collapsing. It was then that he realized he could touch right back and he sank a hand into black locks, luxuriating in how soft it was, better than his imagination. He kept the Werewolf there, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he whined in pleasure, dick throbbing in his slacks from the attention he was being paid.

Christ. Hale had been right. Stiles had never really had decent sex with a Werewolf, not one acting like a Wolf at any rate. Teeth sank in the flesh at the joint of his neck and shoulder and he gasped, the sound becoming a moan as his head fell back. His hips bucked off the couch as though connected somehow and he wished like hell he had something touching him, something to rut against.

After thoroughly laving the side of his neck, Hale lifted his head, half-lidded eyes boring into Stiles'. “I want you on my bed, naked, ass up and presenting. I wanna eat you out and finger you until you come, screaming my name, then lick you clean. Then I wanna fuck you hard and knot you so full that you can't physically handle it and you beg for it to stop.”

Oh Jesus fucking Christ, that sounded like absolute fucking heaven to Stiles. And he let out an elongated groan to show it, hips rolling and dick throbbing and hole pulsing to show just how very fucking on board he was with that plan.

Hale's eyes flashed red, smirk dangerous as he pulled away before standing, holding out a hand. Stiles took what was offered, knowing he'd need the help, given how shaky he already felt. Fuck, he was already far gone and nothing had even really happened yet. He wasn't gonna survive the actual act.

The Werewolf kept hold of his hand as he led Stiles through the apartment, past countless other doorways that he only got a quick glimpse into: a study done up in burgundy hues, a navy blue and white bathroom, a guest room in mint green and lavender. It wasn't until they reached the closed over door at the end of the hall that Hale finally slowed, that Stiles realized they'd been rushing. Door pushed open, Stiles was allowed to enter first, taking in the hunter green walls and large sleigh bed with tan linens that matched the closed drapes. More cherry wood was in here, matching the furniture in the living room, and a small gold Christmas tree sat on a nightstand on the far side, already lit up and casting a warm glow in the room.

Most of it Stiles gave a cursory glance to before his eyes focused completely on the bed itself, the thick looking comforter that seemed out of place for a Werewolf, the mountain of pillows at the head. The mattress was wide and tall, California king Stiles figured, and he didn't even bother fighting the urge to toe off his shoes and throw himself on top, landing on his back with a couple bounces that had him laughing.

Until he remembered.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he watched Hale shut the door as he put a sheepish look on his face. “I was supposed to get naked first, wasn't I?” he belatedly recalled, wincing slightly.

But the Werewolf was grinning, teeth on display as he stalked closer, Stiles' heart pounding wildly out of control as he felt every inch the prey. “This works for me,” Hale rumbled, crawling onto the bed and up over the human laying prone. Stiles' breathing was shaky, his legs spreading in invitation, even as the older man straddled them, and he fell back so he was laying flat, tilting his head to show his neck.

The offer was taken, Hale lowered his head and inhaled deep from his pulse point once more, breathing out a swear that ghosted over sensitive skin. He lowered his body so it was mere inches above Stiles', bracing himself on one forearm, his free hand going back to work on the buttons of his flannel. When the buttons were all undone, the Wolf parted the two sides of fabric, his hand hot against Stiles' skin, and pushed it as far over the rounds of his shoulders as possible. Stiles wrestled it off and tossed it aside, suddenly glad he'd skipped an undershirt despite how cold he got, thankful he was that much closer to naked, thankful he could feel Hale's touch on his bare skin.

Hands trailed down his arms, leaving paths of fire in their wake, sliding from his shoulders to his wrists. The professor pinned both of Stiles' arms above his head, on the mountain of pillows, one large hand able to envelope both thin wrists easily. Unfair really. And given the fact that the Werewolf had ten times—if not more—the strength of any human, Stiles knew there was no escaping.

Not that he even wanted to. Honestly, being held like that had his cock pulsing and his hips rolling while he bit his bottom lip and looked at the older man with half-lidded eyes.

Hale smirked before leaning his head down, biting the human's throat gently in a warning and a reminder, and Stiles didn't bother holding back the whine that escaped. Those teeth turned him on more than anything, the sense of danger adding an extra level of excitement to the whole thing. Part of him wished it was fangs sinking in, at the very least pressing down just so he could feel how sharp they were.

Maybe one day.

Maybe today could be that day. Maybe he could goad the teacher into doing it, point out how he was told he'd feel how it really felt to have sex with a Werewolf...

“Please,” he whispered, feeling the way his throat vibrated against Hale's teeth.

The request was ignored though, the professor releasing his loose hold then laving the skin with his tongue in a way that was both soothing and tantalizing at the same time. A shiver raced up Stiles' spine, body undulating as best as it could under Hale, under his grip. A smirk was pressed against the dip of his collarbone before teeth dragged along one side of it, tongue tracing the other half. The Werewolf nipped at the sensitive flesh at the edge of his pit then traced his nose along it, inhaling deep. A rumbling growl emanated from his chest, vibrating against Stiles', and the human smirked at it, glad he'd forgone the deodorant. Clearly a wise idea.

“Fuck,” the older man breathed out, free hand gripping the side of Stiles' waist. “Do you have any idea how good you smell?”

A smirk formed on his face, tongue darting out to lick his lips, head tilting back in self-satisfaction. “Tell me.”

Hale huffed, tickling, but kept his nose buried in Stiles' pit, where his scent was the strongest. He was silent, not answering for a long moment, long enough for Stiles to think this request would go denied as well. But then the silence was broken by a groaned out phrase that had him twitching in his pants.

“ _So fucking good_ ,” the professor answered honestly, still sniffing his fill. “Makes it hard to focus in class. I have to basically fight my wolf back so it doesn't take over mid-lesson and try to rut all over you, combine our scents so everyone knows you're mine, knot you good and hard in order to really drive it home so there's no doubt to anyone on this planet who you belong to.”

Stiles moaned, legs shifting and hips rolling. “Wish you would. Fantasize about it so much. It's why I wrote about Mating and knotting, because I couldn't stop thinking about you doing it to me.”

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say, given the way Hale froze all over, making Stiles' heart stop. _Abort Mission_ signals blared in his head, all flashing lights and loud sirens, and he wished he could go back in time about thirty seconds so he'd kept that admission to himself.

Shit.

He figured there was zero possibility that he could get away with a “lol jk”, so he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, bracing himself for the inevitable rejection. Wasn't exactly how shit played out in his daydreams, but that's what made them fantasies, made it more obvious that this was actually reality. Because it was only natural that he fucked it up in some way, that he'd say or do something completely idiotic and have the whole thing grind to a screeching halt before he was kicked out.

Typical. Fucking typical. The one time he actually managed to get in the bed of an out-of-his-league beyond-hottie, and his mouth fucks it up for him.

Hale raised his head, eyes a dull crimson, lips parted as he took slow, deliberate breaths, as though trying to keep them measured and even. As it was, there was a slight tremble to him, his hand cranking down around Stiles' wrists and making him gasp, and it was that small sound that snapped him out of it.

“This could get us in serious trouble,” he pointed out, brow pulled into a scowl as he blinked away the red from his eyes.

Stiles shrugged a shoulder as best he could, faking a nonchalance he didn't quite feel. “Don't ask, don't tell,” he stated with a cheeky grin, licking his bottom lip. “No one needs to know what happened during this extra tutoring session.”

Green eyes flicked back and forth between brown ones, as though trying to figure out if he was serious or not.

The human kept grinning, lifting his head so that their lips were only millimeters apart, whispering in a tease. “Don't deny your inner-wolf what it wants any longer, Professor. We both know that it won't end well.” He flicked the older man's lips with the tip of his tongue, earning a rumbling growl in response, and he simply kept the smirk up as he lay his head back on the mattress.

“You're playing with fire,” the Wolf warned.

He shrugged a shoulder again. “I went through a pyromaniac phase in middle school. Might be recurring now.” He rolled his body, grinding his hips up against his professor's as best as he could. “Thought you were gonna show me what it was like to _really_ get fucked by a Werewolf. So far, all you've done is talk.”

The growl he let out this time was deeper, more annoyed, and Hale ducked his head to bite at the juncture of Stiles' neck and shoulder. His teeth sank in further than his previous nips, causing the human to cry out, back arching as pain and pleasure got mixed up in his head.

 _That_ was more like it.

“Fuck, Professor,” he gasped out, a breathless chuckle coming out as his eyes drifted closed. His skin felt electrified, tingling in the best possible way, and all he wanted to do was lay back and enjoy the sensations.

“Derek,” the Werewolf mumbled, words obscured against Stiles' skin, his tongue laving the wound he'd just inflicted. “Call me Derek.”

Stiles let out a hum in pleasure and agreement, smiling, tilting his head to the side to give the older man more room to work. “Derek,” he moaned, testing the name, loving the way it rolled off his tongue so easily. The fact that it was his _professor's_ name, his given name, that he was calling out wasn't lost on him, adding to the delicious way it tasted to him. Sure, there were laid back teachers who went by their first name, but never in this circumstance, never with their hips rolling and tongue swirling and arousal throbbing so obviously.

Derek moved downward once more, made another detour to Stiles' other pit and inhaled deeply, went back on his way to one of his nipples. He didn't hesitate to take the whole thing in his mouth, sucking hard and flicking his tongue on the hard tip with zero hesitation. Stiles groaned, fighting against the hold on his wrists to try and touch the Werewolf, to somehow ground himself through the contact. But it was futile effort, Derek holding him in place with the least amount of exertion possible.

Infuriating as fuck.

Also hot as fuck.

Getting manhandled and held down were definitely kinks he was discovering that evening.

As was being bitten, he decided, as the Werewolf nibbled at his nipple, making him whimper and his hips buck. Apparently there was a nerve that went straight from the hard nub to his cock, causing it to throb in his boxers, and he was dying to just get completely naked, get the Wolf inside him, and get knotted up tight.

“Derek, please,” he whined, the older man just grinning as he switched his attention to the other nipple, sucking hard on it while pinching and tugging at the first. The actions had him harder than he could ever remember being before and he began fighting not to touch Derek, but to touch himself, to get his pants off and his hand on his cock. He let out another whine and rolled his hips in frustration, trying to at least get some friction from the professor.

Derek peered up at him from under his lashes, pupils blown with a thin ring of green showing. “You want it?” he teased, blowing on Stiles' saliva soaked nipple and making him shiver. “How bad?”

He kept rolling his hips, kept bucking them, kept trying to get off somehow someway. But Derek held himself up too far for him to reach, smirking smugly at it, and Stiles stared up at him with pleading eyes. “Really fucking bad,” he admitted with a whine. “Like, I'm either gonna literally explode or come in my pants or both, I'm not entirely sure.”

Derek had the gall to huff out a laugh, corner of his eyes crinkling as he smirked. “Well, I don't want you to explode, that's for sure. Maybe we should slow down for—”

“You slow down and I swear to fucking god, I will shove a branch of mountain ash wrapped in wolfsbane and dipped in mistletoe so far up your ass—”

Another laugh cut him off, joined by a placating “okay, okay”, the Werewolf more amused than anything. Stiles glowered down at him, not too happy that his threat wasn't being taken all that seriously, not too happy that his needs were still being ignored.

“How attached are you to these pants?”

Okay, that was... random. And a little worrying.

“Very,” Stiles stated, leaving no room for argument or whatever it was that Derek was thinking. Which more than likely involved his claws and tearing fabric. “They're warm as fuck and my ass looks great in them.”

“Your ass looks great in damn near everything. It's part of the problem.” The words were muttered, like Derek was reluctant to admit it, and considering the basis of their relationship prior to Stiles showing up at his apartment, it was understandable. They both knew lines were being crossed and that after tonight, even after what little they'd done together so far, shit was gonna change for both of them, together and separately.

Part of Stiles felt as though he should be worried or even scared about this, yet he couldn't bring himself to actually feel those things, to regret any of it. Maybe later, maybe the next day, maybe a few years down the line, who knew. But in that moment...in that moment, all he could feel were the tingles in his skin and the ache in his groin and the tightness in his chest. All he could feel was a deep driving need for more and the hope that he'd get it.

The hand moving to the button of his khakis meant that his hope wasn't futile, wasn't for nothing, and that for once, he'd actually be getting what he'd been wishing for.

Thank. Jesus.

Button popped, fly unzipped, pants tugged downward, and Stiles lifted his hips to try and help. Derek struggled to pull them—and his boxers, Stiles realized when he felt the cotton move—with one hand, a scowl forming as his thick eyebrows furrowed together, lip curling up in a frustrated sneer. The student pressed his own lips together in a hard line, barely holding back a snicker at the sight of the Werewolf actually having a hard time with something, when things seemed to come so easy to the Supernatural, and looking pissed about it. Seemed like a beautiful sort of irony to the clumsy human who sometimes had issues putting those very pants _on_ without getting his leg caught and damn near falling over because of it.

A frustrated growl left Derek and a small laugh managed to make its way out of Stiles, earning him a gruff “shut up” that only had him laughing more. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling instead, trying to steady his breathing in an attempt to calm the giggles. It worked, allowing him to relax and chill.

Until an actual chill hit his cock and fabric scraped its way down his thighs and legs, the heavy thud of his khakis and undies hitting the floor reaching his ears and he had a thought in the back of his head about his phone and wondering if his wallet and keys stayed put or if he'd have to try and find them later.

Then all thoughts escaped his mind entirely as Derek managed to swallow his cock down in one go.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Stiles cried out in surprise and pleasure, his back arching as best as it could with his wrists still being held above his head and his hips now being pressed down by Derek's other hand. He looked down to find his teacher laying alongside his legs, head ducked down to engulf him, sucking hard, throat massaging the head of him. Stiles let out a whimper, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, right leg bending and heel digging into the mattress. Fuck, the Werewolf wasn't giving him a chance to breathe, to adjust, to catch up, going straight to bobbing his head up and down, tongue laving as much as it could.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped out, followed by a breathy laugh and a whine. His hips tried to ride the wave, the motion of Derek's head and his beyond superb blowjob skills, but he couldn't. Despite the frustration, it was hot as hell, having to stay there, to allow the Werewolf to do as he pleased.

Yeah. Another new kink being discovered.

“I'm gonna,” he tried, words getting choked off as the tip of Derek's tongue slipped into his slit and he moaned around the head of his cock. “Oh fuck, Der, gonna co—gonna come.”

His hip was squeezed, Derek sliding him entirely into his mouth once more, no hesitation, no choking, no gag reflex apparently. The Werewolf groaned, the vibrations shooting all the way up Stiles' spine, and he didn't bother trying to hold back anything. A swear burst forth from his lips as his head tilted back, fingers clenching and toes curling as he shot off into his professor's mouth. Derek pulled back enough to swallow it all down with no problems, still sucking hard as though trying to milk him dry, a growl rumbling from his chest.

Apparently Stiles tasted good.

Apparently that had been a worry he wasn't even aware of having until he felt a small prickle of tension ease from his mind.

Typical.

Derek continued to suck until nothing else was coming out, then pulled off, switching to laving Stiles' cock and cleaning it with his tongue. The actions kept Stiles hard, his thighs twitching from the pleasure and the overstimulation. It wasn't until he rasped out a “stop” that the Werewolf did as he was told, pulling away entirely. He squeezed Stiles' wrists in warning before releasing them and sitting up, grabbing his sweater at the bottom hem and pulling it over his head.

Stiles was pretty sure it was like seeing God.

He'd always known the man was built, that much was obvious from the fit of his clothing, but this...this was better than his imagination or poor adult star stand-ins. His arms were jacked, chest broad, abdomen cut and delineated, the fucking _illiac furrow_ between his torso and hips. Then there was the hair covering it, a nice pelt over his chest that tapered down his abdomen and leading down into his jeans. Happy trail indeed.

Stiles unconsciously licked his lips as his eyes roamed the man before him, watching as he unbuckled his belt. The bulge at his crotch was bigger than before, his dick perfectly outlined in the tight denim, and he felt his hole clench then relax in anticipation of having that inside him. He was pretty sure it was bigger than any he'd ever had and he was excited to find out first-hand if all those cliches about size not mattering were accurate or just what dudes with tiny cocks said to make themselves feel better.

Considering he'd hooked up with a guy who hadn't been all that blessed in the genital region, Stiles was more apt to believe it was the second.

Or maybe it _was_ all about how it was used and that guy just sucked in bed.

Hopefully he was about to find out.

Derek began undoing his button fly and Stiles fought to keep his hands above his head, gripping onto his hair to keep them in place. His dick lay against his lower abdomen, twitching in interest, and he rolled his hips in both a tease and in need, both feet now planted on the bed and knees bent upwards.

Finally, fucking _finally_ the last button was popped free and Derek's jeans were shoved down enough to allow his cock to breathe, standing stiff and proud and practically to the man's belly button. Stiles' eyes went wide at the sight of it, a groan leaving him and his legs falling further open. Derek definitely didn't stuff and he definitely wasn't overcompensating for anything, not with a porn-star dick like that.

Stiles hands twitched, arms jerking as they started to move, started to reach out to touch, remembering at the last second not to. But fuck did he want, so very fucking much. He settled for letting out a groan, his hips bucking slightly, the Werewolf's name leaving his lips on a whisper.

The older man smirked, shoving his pants down as best he could, shuffling around in order to fully tug them off. They were tossed aside carelessly, just like the rest of their clothing, unwanted, unneeded, forgotten, Derek then moving so he was kneeling between Stiles' legs. He inhaled deeply, gripping the base of his cock in a tight circle of his fingers, and Stiles' eyes darted down to see precome drip out, falling onto the comforter uncaringly.

Christ, he wanted to taste it, to take Derek in his mouth just the same way the Werewolf just had his dick down his throat. He'd have to work up to it, especially with one that huge, but he could do it, he knew he could.

He'd die trying to, that was for goddamn sure.

Hell of a way to go though. And totally worth it.

Hands trailed down the insides of his thighs, bringing him back to the moment, Stiles watching thick fingers slide down his flesh. Derek's hands were so much more tan than his legs, years of being hidden from the sun keeping them pale, another contrast between the two of them. He swallowed hard as the Werewolf pushed his legs further open, splaying him wide, exposing him. His breathing became shaky and he grabbed hold of his own wrists, locking them in place against the top of his head.

Part of him wanted to fight the way he was held open, to bring his legs back together, to cover himself up. But he didn't. Not only because he was wordlessly being told not to, but also because of the hungry way Derek was looking at him, staring at his cock, at the way his hands were still pressed against Stiles' groin, framing it. His heart began racing in his chest, feeling like prey once more, unable to find it within himself to be upset over it.

He wanted to be devoured.

Those hands slid back up his inner-thighs, Derek smirking as he spoke in a rumbling timber that reignited that fire within Stiles. “Remember what I told you in the living room?”

Stiles' mind blanked for a second before it came back to him, the husky orders Derek had given as they sat on the couch, after kissing him like a starved Wolf. He wanted to eat him out, finger him, then fuck him full and knot him up.

He shivered, voice trembling as he spoke. “Wasn't I supposed to be facedown for this?”

Derek tilted his head in consideration, hands now curving over the rounds of his bent knees. “I think I want you like this for now. I wanna see your face when you come. I only got a glance when I swallowed your seed.”

The dialogue was corny and lame but it was still enough to have his dick reacting, blood filling it once more. The Werewolf's eyes flashed red, making the human groan and tilt his head back in supplication, relaxing his body and allowing the older man to use him as he wanted.

“Please.”

In the matter of a blink, Stiles was bent in half, hands tucked behind his knees as his legs were pressed back against his chest, body rolled so that his ass was in the air. The next second found Derek with his head buried between his cheeks, beard rasping at the sensitive skin as he licked at Stiles' hole with no preamble, no tease, no lead-up.

A lot like how he'd immediately just sucked Stiles' cock down to the root.

A shaky gasp made its way out, Stiles hips bucking as best they could in order to try and get more of it. In the back of his mind, he was glad he'd washed himself back there in the shower, enough so that he wasn't entirely disgusting, and judging from the rumbling groan Derek let out, he'd done a good job.

Hands moved to his cheeks, still holding him in position, spreading him further open. Stiles could feel his rim being stretched and he relaxed his body, tried to open himself more, getting an approving rumble in response before being lapped up with the flat of Derek's tongue. Electric shocks zapped up his spine with every contact, every lick. No one had ever bothered eating him out before, no one had ever wanted to. His hook-ups had been more about just getting off, assplay nothing but fingering someone open to make way for the main event. He spent more time playing with his own hole than anyone else ever had.

Until that moment of course.

Because now Derek was giving him a thorough tongue bath, his rim practically sopping with saliva, dripping down his crack. He speared his tongue and dipped it inside Stiles' hole, humming in satisfaction, the sound vibrating against his rim pleasantly.

Every exhale was heavy, tinged with a whine, Stiles' grip on his wrists going white knuckled. He was probably cutting off the circulation to his hands but he didn't care, too focused on the pleasure radiating from such a sensitive area. Fuck, it was like Derek was perfectly in tune with his body, knew exactly when to lave over the opening, when to lick inside of it, when to suck hard at the rim. Part of Stiles was convinced he was able to do it using his advanced Werewolf senses; the other part really didn't give a fuck how he was able to pull it off so goddamn perfectly, more caught up in how fucking good it all felt.

He was panting hard, stomach trembling from his ab muscles being contracted for so long, when a finger finally slipped inside. He cried out at the intrusion, Derek's finger thicker than his own, placated by the tongue lapping at his rim once again, soothing him. The digit twisted and tugged, stretching his rim out, reaching as far inside as possible. Stiles' pants turned to whines and a loud moan tinged gasp left him as Derek was able to zero in on his prostate pretty much immediately.

A laugh ghosted against his overheated skin, beard scratching against his cheeks, and Derek carefully rubbed at it, testing, mindful of the fact that Stiles had recently come. The human was grateful, arm stretching back to grab hold of one of the pillows under his head, his wrists aching from being squeezed so tight by his own hands.

Derek's middle finger began sliding in and out, a prelude to what was to come, his index now rubbing at the rim to relax it further. Stiles exhaled long and slow, a whine escaping with it, allowing the tension to leave his body as best he could while still being balled up. Slipping his finger out, Derek spat at his hole, spreading it around before sliding two fingers back inside.

“Ah shit!” Stiles cried out once more, the intrusion more than before, the stretch felt more, stinging slightly. The Werewolf's eyebrows raised and he lifted his head, making eye contact, keeping his fingers still.

“You okay?” he questioned, concern leaking into his voice.

Stiles swallowed hard as he nodded, peering down his somewhat contorted body at the older man. “Yeah. Might need a minute. And some lube.”

Derek nodded in understanding, sitting up straight as he slipped his fingers out, tugging at Stiles' legs so he was now laying with them bent, knees in the air. “Lube's under the pillow,” he stated, smirk on his face.

Raising an eyebrow, the human slid his hands under both pillows on either side of him, both coming into contact with various items and pulling them out. His left hand held the bottle of lubricant, his right, a length of silk rope.

Interesting.

A smirk of his own formed as he held both items up so they could be seen by the other man, letting his amusement be known in his scent. “You had this all planned out, huh?”

The Werewolf grinned in a predator like fashion, like the villain in all those fairy tales and Stiles was Little Red Riding Hood with no idea the Big Bad Wolf was hiding in her grandma's house. “Like I said earlier,” he began, his voice a sexy rumble that made the human's cock throb and hole twitch, “I had more than a few fantasies starring you.”

Oh fuck. Like Stiles would ever be able to forget.

He eyed the rope, fingers curled around the soft red silk, imagining how it would feel around his wrists. He'd be kept in place even better than he was at that moment, vulnerable, helpless, at the mercy of that Big Bad Wolf.

His dick throbbed harder, pulsing against his lower abdomen, precome spurting out from the slit and making said Wolf's eyes go red. “Maybe next time you can use this on me.”

The red switched back to green, a confused furrow to Derek's brow, and his head tilted to the side in confusion. “Next time?”

Oh. Fuck. Shit, he'd been misreading so much shit that night, his imagination running away from him once more, leading him to places he shouldn't go and conclusions he shouldn't have. Like thinking this wasn't gonna be a one-time thing solely to educate Stiles on what he'd been so wrong on and giving him more experience so he could be more accurate in his essays.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“I.” He paused, swallowed, hands falling to the mattress. “I mean, _if_ there—I didn't mean to presume or, like, do—say—I mean—” 

“Stiles, relax,” Derek interrupted with an easygoing smile, leaning down so his lips were mere centimeters away. His hands rested over Stiles', hot, heavy, and his eyes went crimson once more. “There will be _plenty_ of next times, believe me.”

“I believe you,” he whispered without thinking, knowing it was true. He couldn't hear lies in heartbeats or smell dishonesty in scents, but he knew for a fact the professor was being entirely honest here, that despite everything, they were most definitely gonna be doing this again.

And again.

And again.

Fuck, they hadn't even done it once yet, but Stiles was already looking forward to the future times.

Derek slipped the lube bottle from his hand as he flicked his tongue on the tip of Stiles' nose, then sat up straight, smirk still there and eyes still red. “Hands back above your head. Or I'll use that rope tonight.”

He debated for half a moment over whether that was much of a threat, if he wanted Derek to follow through on it at that moment, only to figure that for this first time, he'd rather the binding be metaphorical, symbolic more than real. So he raised his hands above his head once more, knuckles hitting the headboard before they fell onto the pile of pillows.

“Good boy,” Derek praised, the words making Stiles' chest light up and puff out. “Keep your legs spread.” He popped open the cap on the lube and coated two of his fingers in it, setting it next to his leg for future use. Rubbing at Stiles' rim, he made sure the entrance was nice and wet before sliding his digit in, making the human groan.

Jesus Christ, Stiles loved this. Topping was great, getting his dick wet, the clench of being inside someone, but having his ass filled, played with, coming from having something inside was beyond words amazing. If he was forced to pick, he'd be a bottom for sure, especially when he had someone like Derek with his thick digits sliding a second one inside and stretching him.

His prostate was rubbed at, massaged, making him cry out and moan, panting once more. When he got too worked up, too close to coming, Derek switched to sliding his fingers in and out, spreading them, spreading _him_ , stretching him more. Once Stiles had managed to come down some, when he wasn't on the very edge of collapse, Derek would go right back to playing with his prostate. He repeated the pattern before adding a third finger, making Stiles cry out louder, his legs shaking as he tried to hold them up, hold them open.

“Oh fuck, Derek, shit, _please_ ,” he groaned, he begged, clutching at the top of the pillows as though they would stop him from drifting out to sea, stop him from floating off the bed.

Derek ignored him, choosing instead to duck his head back down and begin laving at Stiles' inner-thighs. He nosed at his perineum, playing with his prostate from the other side as his fingers scissored and stretched him, trailed his tongue along the crease of his legs and groaning at the taste of the sweat that more than likely collected there.

Fuck, even just those fingers moving in and out, it was enough to make him feel as though he was gonna come, balls drawing up tight. His back arched off the bed before he forced it back down, peering down at the Werewolf and crying out at the sight of him.

“Der. Gon' come,” he managed to get out, fingers slipping out and petting his hole now.

“Good,” Derek stated with a smirk. “Wanna make you come one more time, get you nice and relaxed so you can take my knot better.”

The thought of it had his hips bucking and hole pulsing under the older man's fingers and his eyes darted to where Derek's other hand was now on his right knee, holding Stiles' leg out so he couldn't close them. The size of a Wolf's Knot was supposed to be proportionate to their fist and given how big Derek's hand looked...

As though reading his mind, Derek lifted his hand and clenched it, smirking wickedly once more.

Holy shit!

Right, Stiles had no idea if he was terrified or excited but either way he was groaning and rolling his hips and licking his lips and so very fucking ready to feel Derek inside of him—well, more than just his damn fingers inside of him anyway.

“I want it,” he stated, almost drunkenly, eyes half-lidded and body still rolling. “Fuck, I want your cock, I'm so ready for it.”

“Not yet,” Derek argued, rubbing at his hole once more. “Take one more finger, then you will be.”

Stiles' eyes went wide at that, brows practically shooting off his face. Was he fucking serious? The most he'd even taken was three, there was no fucking way...

Then again, knots were taken up asses all the time. Dudes in porn were taking them, plus someone's fingers inside. And if he wanted Derek's, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Especially considering the fact that his cock by itself was fucking huge.

Pressing his lips into a hard line, he nodded his head vehemently, showing how very willing and ready he was for whatever Derek thought was best. He spread his legs as far apart as he could, lifted his hips to try and show off his hole, hinting, and the Werewolf rolled his eyes as he seemed to get it.

“Next time, I'm fully in charge,” he grumbled, pouring more lube onto his fingers, using his other hand to make sure they were properly coated. “That means no whining or begging or hinting.” He shot the younger man a look and Stiles just grinned innocently, pretending like he had no clue what the older man was talking about.

Total angel, Stiles Stilinski.

Eyes were rolled, three fingers sliding back inside him once more and ending further discussion by making Stiles moan, his eyes drifting closed. Derek thrust them a few times, scissored them, made sure he was stretched open as his pinky played with his rim. Stiles could feel himself being worked up once more, the pressure building, climbing, mounting.

The pinky slid inside on the next thrust in and he damn near screamed, crying out so loud. His arm flew out and slapped against the mattress, tugging at the comforter before he realized and moved it back. Every exhale was a breathy cry, more than he'd ever had, but fucking loving it. Jesus, he was born to be a bottom, he decided right then and there, especially if Derek was the one topping him, playing with him.

The fingers moved in and out, twisting and scissoring and stretching as they had before, and only when Derek decided it was okay and he was ready did he hold them inside, switching his attention to Stiles' prostate.

“Ever come just from this?”

Stiles shook his head. “Not for. Lack of tryin',” he barely got out, hips bucking as he tried to get more from the Werewolf. “Arm. Hand cramped.

Derek began rubbing the bundle of nerves, pressing down on it and making Stiles whimper loudly. “Won't have that problem today,” he pointed out, grazing his beard along the length of Stiles' cock and making him shudder. “Not gonna stop until you come from just your prostate.”

His teeth sank into his bottom lip as Derek began his mission to do just that, practically assaulting the hard nub. His hips twitched, thrust back and forth as he struggled to figure out if he liked the attention or if it was too much or not enough. No matter what, the Werewolf wasn't letting up, rubbing circles on his prostate as the fingers on his other hand began pressing against his perineum once more, a double-assault on the bundle.

Stiles practically convulsed on the bed, legs trembling, sliding slightly down so they weren't as bent. His body jerked, halfway curling up, before going the other way and his back arching. Jesus fuck it was intense, his cock throbbing and twitching, every nerve ending frying and sparking. He didn't know if he wanted it to last forever or for it to end but either way, he was a livewire ready to ignite and fly.

“Come on, baby,” Derek murmured, dragging his lip up Stiles' dick, thumb pressing against his perineum in circles, fingers petting his prostate in back and forth motions. “You can do it. You can come for me. Lemme see you let go, lemme smell you as you feel good.”

Stiles whined, wanting to do just that, but wanting more, wanting Derek's cock. “Wan' your knot,” he whined again.

“You will. Soon. I just need you to do this for me first.”

The knowledge that he would soon get what he'd been wanting for months had him relaxing into it, letting his hips roll and legs twitch. His feet dug into the mattress, messing up the comforter, toes curling and calves stretching. His brain felt floating, heavy, buzzing like the rest of him and he knew it would be soon, soon, soon, _now!_

A litany of swears spewed forth from his mouth as he jackknifed off the bed, slamming his hand back against the headboard. His entire body felt like it was pulsing, his cock throbbing, jerking, as Derek almost viciously rubbed his fingers against his prostate to prolong his pleasure. Goddamn if it wasn't the best orgasm of his life, sparks shooting all throughout his bloodstream.

Shit, and he still had yet to be fucked by the guy.

Clearly the man had known what he'd been talking about when he said Stiles had never truly been fucked by a Werewolf.

That, or Derek really truly was the best at fucking.

He was vaguely aware of Derek's tongue lapping at his chest and torso, licking up his come and groaning at the taste, but his brain wasn't quite capable of comprehending anything beyond that. He was just...there... breathing heavily, trembling, a mess of frayed nerves and fried synapses.

It was awesome.

“You still with me?”

Stiles opened his eyes to find Derek holding himself over him, concerned pull to his brow, head turned to the side enough to focus his hearing on Stiles' chest yet not too far to where he couldn't keep eye contact. Letting out a laugh, he smeared a hand down his face as he nodded, grinning wide.

“I'm here. I'm a little wrung out, but I'm here.”

One slow nod from the Werewolf, that brow furrowing further. “We can stop if you wa—”

“Fuck that!” Stiles interrupted, popping up onto his elbows, only able to avoid braining Derek due to the older man's Supernatural reflexes and his ability to get out the way quickly. Derek peered down with a wry grin as he sat back on his heels, hands on his own lap, clearly amused at all of it. “You said you were gonna show me a true Werewolf fucking and promised me a knot.” Stiles wrapped a leg around the older man's waist and tried his best to pull him closer with his foot digging into his lower back, Derek simply moving a hand to his thigh. “You backin' out on me? Not Wolf enough to do it?”

A challenging growl rumbled up from Derek, his lip pulling back on a sneer, and Stiles grinned victoriously, his manipulations successful. “You're a little shit.”

“And you're not the first one to call me that.”

“And I'm not very surprised.” Derek rolled his eyes, but one side of his mouth was curled up in a smile he was only halfway successful in fighting off. He turned his attention to snatching the lube back up, popping open the cap with one hand as the other gripped his cock.

Stiles' eyes drifted back down, taking in the hard length once more, watching as Derek poured lube directly on it then smeared it around with his hand. He was about to have that monstrous thing inside him, filling him, fucking him. It was gonna get bigger at the base, lock him inside and keep them joined together.

Fuck. Yes. Finally.

Dropping his leg, he moved to pull himself back, to sit up so he can turn over, figuring it was about that moment when he would actually follow Derek's original directions, getting on his hands and knees. But Derek's head shot up and he let out a small warning growl that had Stiles freezing.

“Not yet,” he rumbled, grabbing hold of the human's hips and hauling him back down, closer, onto his lap. Stiles' legs hung over his, his ass practically in the air until Derek grabbed a pillow and put it under the small of his back. The movement caused Derek's dick to rub against his, making him even more aware of how big it was, the difference between the two of them, and his heart began racing in anticipation once more.

Derek met his eyes, green and human, face blank of anything except concern. “Last chance.”

Stiles just stared him down as he tipped his chin up.

'Nuff said.

Derek shrugged a shoulder as he lined the tip up with Stiles' open hole, eyes locking onto the human's once more. “Tell me if and when it hurts. Don't bother trying to hide it or act tough. I can smell it on you.”

Not weird at all or anything.

With that, he pressed inside, finally breaching Stiles.

“Oh, _fuuuuck_.” The groaned out word was dragged from the back of his throat as his head tilted back once more. His hands gripped at the comforter on either side of his body, knuckles popping, his toes curling as they hung in the air.

Shit, he'd known Derek was big and he'd known it'd been a while since he'd had anything inside himself beyond the slim vibrator he'd managed to sneakily purchase and pack back home in California. But, fuck, this was beyond what he'd imagined.

And it wasn't even all of it.

Derek went slow though, steadily easing himself in, his eyes flicking back and forth between Stiles' face and his hole. His nostrils were flaring, scenting the air as he went, clearly at the ready to pick up any signs of distress, ready to put a stop to it all. Not that Stiles would stop him. The guy could have a dick covered in razor blades and barbwire and be flaying Stiles open from the inside out and the human would make him keep going.

Okay, he was sounding a little desperate and hard up but honestly, he'd been aching for this moment for so long and now he was finally getting it. It was Christmas coming two weeks early and he wasn't about to tell Santa to take it back.

When Derek finally bottomed out, when his hips were pressed tight against Stiles' ass, he paused, raising an eyebrow in a questioning manner. Stiles just raised one right back, rolling his hips in a circle, grinding Derek's cock against all the right places inside and making them both moan.

Hint taken, Derek began pulling back until just the head was inside, then slowly making his way back in. He kept his motions slow and steady, just like when he'd first entered. His hips rolled back and forth, smooth waves crashing against the shore and with Stiles being held up the way he was, he could nothing but go with the motion of the ocean, pretty much adrift at sea.

And he had no idea what the fuck was up with all the lame fucking water metaphors. His brain was still fried, incapable of any real coherent thought beyond “ _fuck this feels good...slow, but good_ ”.

His eyes lifted to meet Derek's, finding the Werewolf already scrutinizing him with his own gaze. It was as though he was checking for any sort of sign, a sign of distress or discomfort, a sign that all was well and he could keep going, or even pick up the pace. So Stiles nodded, licking his lips, bucking his hips to try and meet the older man's next thrust.

“Please,” he requested, tilting his head to show off the right side of his neck. Totally unfair move to play it up like that, to try and appeal to the Werewolf's baser instincts, but at that moment, he didn't care. He'd been told he'd be getting fucked by a Werewolf and so far, it hadn't _quite_ lived up to those words.

Derek's eyes zeroed in on the exposed flesh, flashing red, and his next thrust wasn't the gentle easy smooth glide it had been, but rather a hard brutal thrust, hips slamming against hips. The slapping sound of skin on skin was drowned out by Stiles' groan, his eyes shuddering closed. It was closer to what he'd been promised, and he grinned, hoping like hell he'd get more of it.

Then again, since appealing to the Werewolf part of him managed to get him this...

Peering up at him through his lashes, Stiles made sure to keep his neck on display, teeth sinking into his bottom lip before releasing it with a pop. “Fuck me hard, Alpha,” he crooned, rolling his hips once more.

That fucking did it.

Crimson bleed into Derek's irises and stayed there, lip curling back to show lengthening fangs. In a flash, Stiles was flipped over, so fast he got dizzy with it, only aware he'd been moved when he spat out a pillow from his mouth so he could breathe. The one from underneath him was gone, his hips still raised up as he landed on his knees, hands palming his ass and spreading him open.

“Whatever my Mate wants,” Derek growled, the sound causing a shiver to race up Stiles' spine, before he slammed his way back inside.

The human cried out, head rearing back and spine arching. He grabbed hold of the pillow mountain before him for support as Derek began pounding away inside him, rutting like the animal he was. The Werewolf was practically hunched over him, angling his cock to drive into his prostate with every brutal thrust. Hands were gripping his hips so hard it hurt, the sting of claws pricking at his flesh, and he knew there was no way he was going back to his dorm without several bruises and a few cuts.

Good.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” he moaned, a pleasured laugh leaving him, cut off by another groan. Hell, his every exhale was punctuating by a moan or a whine or some combination of the two, punched out of him by the force of Derek's thrusts.

Because this was a Claiming, there was no doubt about it. Derek was showing him how very wrong he'd been about everything, not just sex with Werewolves, but sex in general, Werewolves in general. This was the professor going beyond just correcting a student, but staking his territory, making sure all Supernatural creatures who encountered Stiles could smell who he'd been with, who he belonged to, all humans able to see the marks on his skin and know what he'd been up to and that he was taken because of it.

The thought dragged another rough moan up from Stiles' throat, aching, rasping. Jesus, at this rate he was liable to lose his voice, too. There was gonna be no part of him that wouldn't be spared, all of him completely wrecked by what Derek was doing to him.

His heart included.

Because he was gonna be totally ruined for anyone else after this, he just knew it. Sex was never gonna be this good. His feelings were never gonna be this strong. He was done for. Derek or nothing, he knew that now.

His hand reached down for his cock but a growl stopped him and he gripped onto the headboard instead. The way his dick was bobbing around was distracting, yet his arousal didn't seem to care, the way things were building up faster than ever didn't seem to care. His balls were already drawing up tight, spine tingling, and he knew it wouldn't take much.

“Der,” he whined, the Werewolf covering his body.

“I know,” he murmured in Stiles' ear, a hand reaching up to wrap around his throat, just sitting there, no pressure. “Come for me, baby. I can scent how badly you need it.”

Stiles let out a whimper, feeling Derek's chest hair rub against his sweat slick back and his fangs drag across the sensitive flesh of his neck and his cock rubbing against everything inside his passage that made him light up brighter than all the Christmas trees in the city. He could feel Derek getting bigger at the base, could feel how it was slowing him down minutely, could feel the tension in his body as he tried to hold back.

“Don't,” he whispered, swallowing hard, licking his lips, turning his head just enough to press them into the older man's beard. “Don't hold. It back. Gimme your knot, Alpha. Fill me up. Keep it. Keep it inside. Mark me. _Claim me_.”

The words brought out another growl, much louder than any of the others, vibrating against Stiles' back. Derek lifted himself up, pressing a hand between Stiles' shoulder blades and pushing him down as he rose onto his knees. His thrusts slowed and it took more effort for him to press inside. The first time he had to actually work to get his knot in, Stiles groaned loudly, burying his face in a pillow that Derek quickly swiped away. When he popped it back out, Stiles gasped, his cock jerking at it as he damn near came.

“Oh fuck, please keep doing that,” he begged in a rush, turning his head so he could look back at Derek. He shifted his knees enough so his legs were spread more, his cheeks spread more, his hole spread more. “Felt so fucking good.”

Derek's brows raised momentarily over crimson eyes, smirk forming on his face. “Bear down for me, baby.”

Stiles did as requested, relaxing, pushing his hole out as best he could in order to take the half inflated knot inside. It was already bigger than anything he'd taken and would be growing even larger, to the point where they couldn't do this anymore. But for the time being...

He was filled up once again, Derek able to pull it out with another pop that had Stiles convulsing and crying out and his feet lifting off the bed, toes curled up tight. He did it once more, twice, then on the third time, he ripped an orgasm from Stiles that had him yelling, his entire body tightening up. Twice more and Derek could no longer pull out, his thrusts turning into dirty grinds that rubbed right against Stiles' prostate.

The human could barely take it, overstimulated as fuck, overfilled as fuck. It felt as though there was no room inside him to even take in any air, his every breath a shallow gasp that tore at his throat and dried out his mouth. But the way Derek kept working that knot against him had his passage convulsing, trembling, massaging him. And before he knew it, before he'd even come down from his third orgasm, he was screaming out a fourth, cock pulsing but nothing coming out. His toes curled so bad he could feel the strain in his calves and his back arched so far he was sure he'd thrown out his spine and his throat burned even worse, but fuck if it wasn't worth it as pleasure he'd never felt before raced through him, igniting every single inch of him and damn near making him black out.

Derek's own orgasm seemed to be triggered by his, the Werewolf coming with a roar as his hands gripped tight onto Stiles' hips and his cock pumped stream after stream of hot liquid inside of him. He doubled over, the crown of his head hitting between the human's shoulder blades as he shook all over, his breaths harsh pants that seemed to be knocked out of him more than anything. It was violent, animalistic, and everything Stiles had fantasized about times a million.

“Fuck!” the older man yelled, voice shot, a groan grunting its way out soon after. Stiles just let out a small laugh and nodded, feeling completely spent and jellied and only able to remain on his knees due to the grip Derek still had on him.

But eventually even the Werewolf had enough, wrapping his arms around the slender man before collapsing to the side, pulling Stiles with him. There was no question of who would be little spoon, no choice given, not that Stiles minded. There was something so goddamn comforting about having a Werewolf curled around him, protecting him, despite their backs being to the door.

Whatever. He was too tired to give it much though, a yawn forcing its way out and his eyes drifting closed. There was no point in fighting it, and he shuffled enough to get comfortable but not jostle where he was still joined to Derek.

Which, fucking hell was that the sexiest goddamn thing ever. If he hadn't come his brains out—four fucking times—he would totally be up for another round just at the thought of Derek still being inside of him, hard, shudders wracking him every now and then.

“Go to sleep,” the older man murmured in his ear, lip dragging along the shell of it. “We have a lot to talk about in the morning.”

“Mmkay,” Stiles sleepily slurred, relaxing even further at the knowledge he'd be spending the entire night, for once too tired for even his brain to keep him awake.

Good sex would do that, he figured, wondering how often he could convince Derek to fry his brain with orgasms in order to get some more rest.

Meh. He'd ask in the morning, add it to his list of shit to talk about.

Yawning once more, Stiles began drifting off, Derek snuffling at his hair and randomly peppering kisses to his bare skin. The last thought he had before passing out completely was the realization that Derek had called him “Mate” and the memory of what they'd discussed in the living room about “True Mates”.

Next semester was sure to be interesting.


End file.
